


pretty little spark

by fiddleogold_againstyoursoul



Category: Mr Robot, Mr Robot (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mild Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8238020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul/pseuds/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul
Summary: (But no matter how much I keep telling myself that, the need lingers.
Maybe if I was a girl, Tyrell would stay. Maybe if I was pretty enough, smart enough, good in bed and on my feet. Maybe if I'd married him before his wife had. Maybe if I was pretty enough.)
Pretty. Why did that word hurt to think, when he was wrapping himself around me, when he was huffing little whines of pleasure and frustration and pent-up emotions? Why did that word make me ache when I was in front of laptops and computers, working out ways to destroy or save the world? 
Stupidly, I wanted that: I wanted Tyrell Wellick to tell me I was pretty.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nymeriastarks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymeriastarks/gifts).



> Just me exploring deeper into the Mr Robot universe ;)

Sometimes, just sometimes, we play pretend. We play house, the stupid little family game all kids seem to play.

I'm the wife, the pretty little thing that sits around waiting for her husband to come home. How much of this is true seems to elude Tyrell: I am waiting. I am always waiting. For something to happen, for Mr Robot to make something happen. For Tyrell to come by and help me forget all of it, everything gone wrong, just for a little while. 

Tyrell's the husband with the posh suits and the crisp accent and the  _how are you, baby_ and  _I've had a long day at work today, min själsfrände, could you make me feel a little bit better?_ and how his lips crash into mine when he shows up uninvited on my doorstep and how his slender fingers rake through my hair when he talks to me, so warm and so gentle and yet always trembling, like he's afraid he'll break me.

(If only he knew it would take more than him to break me.)

But sometimes it feels that way, when he's nipping at my neck with those ferocious, intense kisses that will leave marks all over my skin, our dirty little secrets that will fade away far too fast for both of our liking: sometimes it feels like if I wasn't holding on so tight on myself, on the identity I'm crafting from scratch over again just because my old one isn't secure enough, I'd lose myself in him.

(Would it really be so bad? To lose myself in him.)

 

* * *

 

He takes another drag of his cigarette and I look over. 

'Don't smoke in my bedroom.'

'You do a lot worse,' He points out, but I'm stubborn, and he puts it out. 'Sometimes you're like my actual wife, you know that? Women.'

(I'm not your wife. I'm not the one you return to week after week even though you spend nights on end in the apartment of a mentally unstable drug addict. I'm not the one you kiss goodbye and kiss hello in front of all those galas and not the one you show off in front of your successful, beautiful friends, and not the one whose fingers you squeeze when you're getting into a rough patch. I'm not your wife, Tyrell -

_But hell, maybe I want to be_

\- stop comparing me to her, because you'll never get anything out of it.)

He's gone in the morning. I think I should have gotten used to it by now, but it still makes something in me twist. I can't afford to become this emotionally dependent on someone. Much less a murderer, much less someone on the run: Mr Robot preys on my weaknesses. I can't let him see how much it hurts. I can't let him anywhere near Tyrell.

(Whenever I'm with him, time seems to slow. Mr Robot is light years away.)

 

* * *

 

 

I see the stockings in a display, and they don't catch my eye before the advertisement for them does: a pretty, supple model with her face all dolled up the way that's not considered "overkill" but still heavy enough to be in a clothing advertisement, pale silk up to her thighs and pretty red ribbons at where they end. They come with a set of panties, lace and thin material that would look obscene on someone well-endowed.

(What am I doing?)

I swallow and continue on my way, Chloe's lead now slippery in my grasp.

(I can't say it hasn't crossed my mind. If I had been a girl, a prettier girl, would Tyrell have

_loved me?_

\- stayed more often? Would have brushed the locks of hair from my face and kissed my pretty lips, pulling off the thin layer of my undergarments till our bodies touched, heat on heat, skin to skin?)

It becomes too much. Especially when I'm with him. When he's crashing into me and I muffle my cries in the comforter, and his fingers are carding through my hair, soft and warm and gentle. _'Ditt hår är så mjukt,'_ He says, admiringly, and I want to scream that if he'll just stay, just stay till daylight and convince me that his visits are not just me dreaming, me hoping, me clutching onto shards of memory and trying to piece together something whole, I would let him touch my hair all he wants. 

He doesn't stay. He moves on, and he leaves for days, weeks, even months. It allows me idleness, of which I spend monitoring fsociety and keeping Mr Robot in check. It even allows me the hope that I'm crazy and he never existed, never wanted me, never even touched me at all.

But then he always comes back, that same smile, and that same _Bonsoir, Elliot,_ and it feels like I'm shattering into a billion different pieces at once, bits of code that don't have an effective enough backup system to reboot on my own after he's done with me. 

 

* * *

 

I swallow as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. This looks wrong. This is wrong.

The stockings sit snug around my thighs, little ribbons tickling my bare skin. They're meant for women, but I've always been small, slender: they wrap around me in a way that shouldn't be right but just is. The panties, little black lace and smooth against my skin, are soft as I brush them off, trying to look at myself just a bit more.

(I feel pretty. I feel pretty. 

_I wish Tyrell could see me like this._

I shouldn't. This is wrong. If anyone knew, they'd laugh. Someone like me needing validation in terms of prettiness.)

They feel good. They make me feel good. I slide my fingers through the thin material, imagining they're Tyrell's, and one thing leads to another. When I'm sitting on the cold floor with come streaking the inside of my thighs, the pretty panties ruined, I realise how far in I am.

(And honestly? I don't care.)

 

* * *

 

I kiss him. He kisses back. He tastes like alcohol and bad decisions. He pushes me onto the bed and fairly rips off my hoodie, eager. 

(But not to see me. Eager because it's me, who'll have him despite anything.

_Eager because I need him as much as he needs this.)_

I let him drink his fill of me. I know he's not seeing as much as glancing past my body. I know it shouldn't matter this much. I'm just a pawn on his chessboard, and his on mine. We both have bigger fish to fry.

(But no matter how much I keep telling myself that, the need lingers.

_Maybe if I was a girl, Tyrell would stay. Maybe if I was pretty enough, smart enough, good in bed and on my feet. Maybe if I'd married him before his wife had. Maybe if I was pretty enough.)_

Pretty. Why did that word hurt to think, when he was wrapping himself around me, when he was huffing little whines of pleasure and frustration and pent-up emotions? Why did that word make me ache when I was in front of laptops and computers, working out ways to destroy or save the world? 

Stupidly, I wanted that: I wanted Tyrell Wellick to tell me I was pretty.

 

* * *

 

I buy another set of stockings. They cost a bomb, but there's nothing like how they make me feel. When I dress up like this, I'm dressing for myself. Mr Robot is, as always, light years away. Darlene, I take care, is either out of the city or on a new mission, and Angela is too busy at her new job anyways. I dress up for myself, but I'm also dressing for him.

(Why do I seek validation from a man who only wants me because he can have me?

Now I know I'm going mad. I'm a special kind of crazy. The only person I'm hurting is myself.)

These masochistic impulses, as I hike the silk up to my thighs and brush my hands lightly against the inside of them, are what keep me alive.

 

* * *

 

_bonsoir, elliot_

I freeze when he comes in, because I wasn't expecting him. It's the silk ones again, little red ribbons that I'm in the process of tying around my legs, and nothing else on but the thin material of my nightshirt and the lace panties. He looks at me, and I see surprise flicker over his features. I feel shame ignite in me

(I know I'm crazy, I know I'm stupid for wanting you, I know you'll never want me like I need you)

'Oh,  _Elliot.'_

His sigh is fluttery, and it makes me squirm. I bite my lip as he comes over, unable to do anything but sit painfully still: he leans in and kisses me, and I can't move. I can't breathe. 

_If I'm kissing fire, then he's breathing in the charred remains of me. Smoke. Ashes._

(Can the Sun fall in love with a candle? Does it wrap itself as carefully as Tyrell does, now, around the wax as it shivers and drips and simply aches with the longing? Does it kiss the wick and set it on fire and make the entire thing seem so much more painful and poetic than it actually is?)

He kisses the insides of my thighs, mouth moving over the thin material of the stockings, and it's painful.

_'Du är så vacker, min vackraste,'_ He says, and I tremble when he grabs me, pushes me further down and kisses me so hard and fast it's hard to tell if I'm Elliot Alderson or an oxygen tank in a cavern filling with water.

(Because fire needs oxygen to stay awake, you see.)

'So pretty, so pretty, _min kära, min vackraste, du driver mig till vansinne.'_

Tyrell Wellick is the Sun, and I am the candle trying so desperately to hold on as he burns me, melts me down into a pile of cold wax. I fade as he touches me, further into a state of bliss, a state of reverence for him. I may laugh at all notions of religion, but should Tyrell ever ask me to fall to my knees, I would worship, I would build shrines out of the peeling wax on my fingertips.

'Tyrell, Tyrell -'

_'Tålamodet, min angel,_ patience, I want to see you.'

I choke out a half-cry, half-moan, and it catches in my throat: he swallows it in a hungry kiss. He looks at me like I'm something he wants. Something important to him. 

(And isn't that all I've ever wanted, to be important to someone? To be wanted?)

_'Säg att du älskar mig,'_ He says, moving so our bodies meet. I stifle another moan and bury my head in my hands: the blood's rushing to it, I can hardly think at all.  _'Jag vill kyssa dig, min kära,  jag älskar dig.'_

I only understand the last bit:  _I love you._

(Does he say it for the wife I'm supposed to be playing? Does he say it for her, pretty, and successful, and charming and smart

_because I can't handle it if he's saying it to me_

because she's the one that should hear it, not me.)

 

* * *

 

 

When I tell him about the story, the one with the Sun and the wax candle, he laughs and nearly shoves me off of the bed.

'The Sun is a star,' He says, looking at me in a way that means more than his words ever can, 'And all stars, they die.'

(But you're wrong, they explode

_into things of beauty and things of life_

and it is the supernovae that put us here.)

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a comment if you enjoyed, they always make my day. You can find me on Tumblr @Theswiftone27 or on Instagram @smol_asiansatan.


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